I Didn't Say Goodbye To My Mother

My mother was physically present in my childhood, but she was emotionally absent.

As a child, I spent a lot of time on my own, especially when I processed emotions. I never felt like I could confide in her or like she would understand.

There were tiny moments of connection, like cuddling on the couch or goodnight rituals, but now even those felt disconnected.

There was no emotional landscape within our household other than anger.

My parents argued or were silent. We were praised when we remained quiet and disciplined when we showed pain or anger. Everything was swept under the rug and forgotten.

My mom tried to speak up to my father, but she was silenced or punished as well.

She showed us that it was safer to submit, ignore our feelings and agree.

She taught me that pleasing others was more important than my pain.

I retreated to my bedroom to feel safe. There I could cry, write, and feel without fear of being judged or abandoned. When we got disciplined, my mom felt like we weren't scared enough, so she would use a plastic spoon or involve my dad, who would use his hands or a belt. When we cried after the physical discipline, they would say, "Stop crying, or we'll give you a reason to cry!"

I learned very early that expressing myself was unsafe, emotions were a burden and mine didn't matter, I had to protect myself, and that if I wanted love, I had to adhere to others' needs.

When I had my girls, I witnessed the same teachings being passed down to them from my mother, but from me. I didn't truly see it until I started healing.

From what I know, my maternal grandmother wasn't emotionally present either, and my mom lost her brother to alcoholism. Her dad left them when she was young. She had no family and no support system.

I didn't truly understand her until I started making changes for myself and becoming a healthier mother, but understanding didn't erase my pain.

That's why I wrote the letter.

I needed her to acknowledge my emotions and be accountable, and I hoped that it would open the door to a new chapter for us, but it didn't.

Her lack of accountability, deflection, anger, and emotional neglect confirmed that my mother wasn't ready or capable of healing, and I knew that I had to walk away without goodbye or closure.

I didn't ask why she didn't love me but instead reminded myself that if she did, it wouldn't have mattered that she didn't remember the pain she caused, because my pain would've mattered regardless. That's when I decided that if she couldn't love me, I would have to love myself.

When I found out years later that she was dying. I felt nothing.

My mother had died the day I walked away.

My brother asked me to visit her because she was my mother after all, and I refused. He insisted I do it for him, if not for her. I refused again. I was choosing myself and I knew how heavy that choice was.

The woman lying in that bed wasn't my mother. She never really had been.

After she passed, I finally cried. Not because she was gone for good, though I did feel the weight of that reality, but because I felt guilty.

Not as a daughter who didn't visit her as she took her last breath, but as a human being knowing she didn't really have a support system other than my brother and my dad, who had left her years before after cheating. I knew what it felt like not to have a support system. I was sad for her and what she might have been feeling.

I made my choice, and I accepted it. I didn't allow myself to question that or spiral into guilt and shame. The reality was that she chose herself and so did I.

My brother eventually confessed that she had asked if I was going to visit her while in the hospital, fighting for her life. I felt like that was her burden to carry when she decided that a healthy relationship with me wasn't possible when she was alive. Yes, it would have been hard, but she didn't put in the effort. She expected me to accept her as she was, but my misery wasn't worth that.

To this day, I grieve whenever I feel like I need a mom.

I grieve the mother she could never be, I never had, and that I deserved, but her failures showed me who not to be on my own motherhood journey.

My daughters are my mirrors. For years, I mirrored my mother, but the fear of losing my relationship with them overpowered my generational pain.

Moments where my mother abandoned or neglected me showed up in motherhood, and instead of repeating her patterns and cycles, I broke them.

Not because it was easy, but because if I wanted to save my girls from the pain I felt, I needed to make a change.

I validated their pain; I took accountability for my actions; I apologized; I made space for their emotions even if I didn't understand; I protected them when I needed to, even from myself.

I loved my mom.

A child can only love, even when they are angry or disappointed.

That's why it hurts so much.

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